Fear Of Dying & Other Short Stories
by D. Paterson
Summary: Short stories set in the novelverse. The first three are up, 1 and 2 deal with his early assignments, 3 deals with his personal life, but is the shortest of the stories so far. All are set preCasino Royale.
1. The Double Oh

THE DOUBLE-OH

A Short Story By Douglas Paterson Based On The Ian Fleming Character & Novels 

The man looked like the devil. The goatee, the slicked back - jet-black - hair. The eyes. They were inhuman, the eyes of a madman. It all added up to the devil. A man who didn't think twice about killing. Bond keeps his eyes on the man, allowing the superstition to amuse him for a moment, but the devil-man is not why he was here. He is just the way in, a necessary part of the plan. Bond sips from his whisky glass, savouring the flavour of the alcohol, the burn on the back of the throat as it slides down. He pulls a cigarette from his case, lighting it as he watches the man walk over to the target - the girl. Bond inhales the life-giving smoke, then looks back at his target.

Bond notes her beauty immediately, the dark eyes, the kind of eyes any other man would get lost in, her long, shining, black hair coming half-way down her back. Her lips were dark with her lipstick, voluptuous and beautiful. He closes his eyes, breathing in the smoke deeply, shutting himself away from these thoughts. She was the target, and he had to remove all emotion towards her. She had to be just another target on the firing range.

Bond was the latest recruit to the small section of MI6 with a licence to kill. A Double-Oh, earned when you had to kill in cold blood over the course of a mission. Bond had killed many times before on active duty, but when you had to kill an unarmed man, when they didn't pose a threat... That's when you earned the number. He had killed two, men selling secrets. One had been a Japanese cipher, Bond had fought him to the death in New York. The second was a double-agent. Bond had stabbed that man in his sleep. Looking back on it, he hated himself from taking the cowards way out of that kill. He'd never had to look into the mans eyes.

He had been drinking steadily since arriving at the ballroom. Normally as a rule he would never allow himself to become drunk on a mission, but the prospect of his first kill as Commander James Bond, 007, made him nervous, sick to his stomach. She would be looking at him, he would see the fear in her eyes. Could he handle it? He could feel the alcohol beginning to creep into his brain, but he didn't care. Not this time.

She moved over to the bar now, and took a glass of wine from the barman. She sipped it gently, and stopped to laugh at whatever the devil-man had told her. He was leaning in close to her. Her protector and lover, probably, Bond thought. He looks away from them for a moment, checking his watch. He had five minutes till he had to initiate his part of the operation, he puts the drink down on the bar. He looks around the room, the best of the best were in this room. The richest of the rich of French Society, getting together to celebrate some engagement. M had secured Bond a place personally, his own. M was a personal friend of the hosts.

The girl was a Russian set up here, from what he had had been told by M. she had managed to get herself... Intertwined... With some French agents, slowly extracting information from them, and feeding it back to the "motherland". That was, till one of them had got wise to her. Bond was to be the man to do the job, as the latest member of the Secret Service she wouldn't know his face yet, none of the Russians did. Why the French couldn't do it themselves was beyond him.

The room was not to Bonds taste, far too gaudy, bright purple. Thankfully he had other things to think about. He takes a last draw of his cigarette, removes it from his mouth and stubs it out in the ash tray on the bar. Bond looks up to the balcony, his cold blue-grey eyes searching for something. He sees 003. He does not make eye contact. The pulls a gun from it's holster and fires once. It has the affect that could be expected. Everyone in the room is immediately in a panic, people running around screaming. Chaos. Bond chances a glance at the woman, screaming at the bloody dead body of the devil man, her eyes filled with panic, she glances up at the shooter, and stands there. Waiting to be shot...

Bond quickly has his berretta out of it's holster, and aims it at 003. A single shot rings out, and the agent stumbles back, and falls down dead. Bond drops the gun and runs over to the woman, grabbing her arm. He speaks to her for the first time in, his accent brilliantly disguised, Russian.

"Come with me." She does not question him, Bond has expected, that in the madness of the assassination her head has gone, but she was calm now, after the initial shock. As if she had expected it. The run through the room, against the stream of still rushing French aristocrats. Bond almost drags the girl up a grand stair-case, and they are soon in the lift, heading up to the roof. She has a chance to think, in the silence.  
"Who are you." Bond notes her accent is French, no wonder she was able to get herself on the inside.  
"KGB sent me, they knew the hit would happen tonight. They sent me to stop it, or take you to safety if I failed." The elevator door opens with a ping, and the two step out. In front of them there is only a door, Bond walks over to it and opens it, revealing the staircase to the roof. The two walk up in, Bond behind the girl, his stomach turning as he watches her climb the steps. What he has to do...

They open the final door and step out onto the roof, the girl turns to him, unsure what to do. "I knew they would send someone tonight," she says, "I didn't care. I'm ready to die." Bond feels his heart tighten, he has to remain distant, get the information then force himself to do what needs to be done.  
"We just need to wait a moment up here till the panic dies down. The Police will come, we've arranged that they will take you to safety"  
"You trust them?" she asks him.  
"We've bought their services for tonight." Bond answers in his Russian accent.

The girl sighs, sitting on the ledge of the building. She looks up at Bond, and smiles, a weak smile.  
"I am not an idiot. I know you're not here to protect me. You want information." Bond doesn't move, his expression doesn't change. He looks at her as what she is, a mission. Surveying her like a mortician surveys a corpse. Not a person, a job. "I'm afraid I have none to give, no names, nothing. They contact me for the information, not the other way around. Now do what you're going to do." She stands up, facing away from Bond, out into the lights of Paris. He pulls his Berretta from his belt, hidden away in the back - his second gun. He aims it at her back.

"Just..." her voice breaks. She's beginning to feel it, her impending death. "Just tell me the name of my killer". She looks round at Bond, and Bond fires. He watches the girl fall to the ground, her dead body landing in a heap. Nothing glamorous, no surreal beauty in her dead body. Ugly, bloody death. Bond holsters the gun, and looks down at the Body. He wouldn't have shot her if she hadn't turned to face him. No more shooting people in the back. He stands alone for a few moments, in silence until 003 walks out onto the roof.  
"God thing you shot at me with the blank 007. Picked the wrong gun and I'd be like her right now." He says, smiling, nodding his head at the body. Bond looks up at the man, disgusted by how casual he is about the death.  
"She knew we were coming. She asked me my name." 003 nods, he knows that what Bond has done will haunt him for some time. He himself still haunted by his first murders.  
"You didn't tell her"  
"No," answers Bond, "no, she didn't need to know. She was a target on the firing range," he looks up at the other Double-Oh, "why would I tell her?". Bond walks to the door on the roof, opening it and disappearing down the stairs and into the darkness. 003 bends down to look at the body, and he wonders if Bond has already lost his humanity...

It's what this job does to you. 


	2. Fear Of Dying

-1**Fear Of Dying**

**A Short Story By Douglas Paterson**

**Based On The Ian Fleming Character & Novels**

It had been Tuesday morning when M had called Bond into his office. Bond, the latest 00-Agent, had been off of active duty since his assassination of a female Russian Spy one month previously, he had failed to get the necessary information. But things had been changing since then. The Russians had found out about the killing, and were retaliating.

The KGB had successfully assassinated several MI6 agents, six to be exact. Each one had been killed in their sleep, stabbed through the heart. Bond suspected he was to be assigned to the case - he had been showing remarkable progress in his training, and general consensus was that he had the potential to be among the best of the 00 section. Of course, they had not said this to Bond to his face, as this would lead to arrogance. But the rumours had made it to him anyway.

M had assigned him to the case, much to Bonds delight. Whenever a fellow agent was killed, everyone took it seriously. Even if they did not know each other, it felt like loosing a member of the family - Bond knew this was a dangerous situation to be in, an agent of Her Majesties Government should be emotionally distant, but it was impossible to turn off basic humanity. Bond saw this as his chance to do the right thing, to avenge his friends.

He was still trying to get used to his new superior, M. The actual head of MI6, before becoming a Double-Oh Bond had never met the man. He could tell he was an old naval man, and had heard his name was Sir Miles De Messervey. He was a cold man, and seemed not to care about the lives of the men. He simply seemed concerned with not looking weak in front of the Russians. Bond wondered to himself if this really was the case, or if he was just being professional. Still, the case was Bonds. He was told to wait till the next morning before starting, and so Bond had settled down that evening with a good dinner and plenty of Bourbon to settle his nerves.

The next day, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice he headed to the airport, and began his journey to New York. He still found planes unpleasant, the food was not to his taste, his tastes being very specific. Worse was the food in America itself, he found it impossible to find anything that agreed with him there.

He slept through much of the journey, far more than usual. He felt strange returning to New York, it was the location of his first kill to earn his Double-Oh number, something he tried to pretend did not bother him, but each kill he made haunted him. And always would. In time he would convince himself that killing didn't bother him. The regret would be a massive enemy he would have to fight, and if he did not win, it would defeat him utterly.

He did not waste time at the hotel. He showered and changed, to get the musk of travel off of himself. He looked at himself in the mirror, making a vein attempt at getting that single unruly comma of his black hair to slick back with the rest of it - but there was no use in it. He admitted defeat in this small aspect of his appearance and set out.

That was yesterday, this is today. And his job is almost done.

Bond walked through the building, nursing an injured arm. He had found the KGB agent who had performed the murders, getting ready to eliminate a CIA agent in this very building. They had fought, and Bond had given as good as he had gotten. The man was hurt, and bad. The building had been evacuated, every one was safe now. Bond and the assassin were alone in the building. Bonds face was bloody, and had this being during the buildings opening hours then he would doubtless have attracted attention by now. He had planned a quick, clean kill. More than the bastard deserved, and now the way he had chose to play the game meant Bond got to relish the kill.

Bond was never a man to have enjoyed killing, it was a necessary part of his job. But this time was an exception, there was a personal vendetta against this man, and Bond would smile when he saw him die.

He did not have long to wait, the assassin was waiting for him round the next corner. The two men stare at each other, the Russians eyes were calm - this was just a job for him. A momentary flicker of fear ran across his face when he sees the hate, the quiet rage in Bonds eyes. The two men were soon locked in combat, throwing each other into the walls of the hallway, punching, kicking and attacking each other with every ounce of energy in their bodies. Bond suffered the worst of it, the man was faster than he was. But that didn't matter - Bond wanted this man dead, and that meant he would die. He finally got his break, hitting the KGB agent square on the jaw with his fist. The man fell to the ground and Bond delivered a swift kick to his stomach, sending the man spinning, landing on his back.

Bond drew his berretta, and stood on the mans arm. He aimed the gun down at the man, aiming right at his forehead.

"To hell with you." he says to Bond. Bond cruel mouth morphed into a cruel smile, and he asked the man...

"Are you afraid of Dying?" The Russians eyes widened as Bond holstered his weapon, and pulled the man to his feet. He threw him out the window, thirty stories up. The mans body was discovered within moments, a bloody pulp on the ground below.

Bond leaves the building, walking through the crowd. He curses himself, the killing far too public. He let his emotions get the better of him.

Not next time.


	3. Not For Love

-1**Not For Love**

**A Short By Douglas Paterson**

**Based On The Characters & Novels Created By Ian Fleming**

Bond awoke to find his curtains already open. The light hit him straight in the face, burning his freshly opened eyes. The girl. It iwa too early for Bond to be awake, barely 5am. He had intended to rest well this morning, recover from the night before. Bond had just returned from Germany, to rescue a fellow agent who had been kidnapped, and had drank rather heavily the night before, in the company of a young woman from MI6, one Miss. Janice Miller.

Bond was gaining a reputation at the building as a user of women, but even though this reputation was slowly spreading through the various women of MI6, mostly secretaries, he was still able to charm them back to his flat. Bond himself had never been in love, sex was something to keep him sane. A tool to keep him healthy of body and mind. The girls he slept with were just tools in order to do this - still, he tried to make them feel loved for the short time he was with each of them. He did not want them to feel cheap the following day. He would spend another few days with this one, then leave her as he did every girl. It stopped anyone getting hurt, especially himself. To Bond, it didn't matter who he slept with, single or married. It was how he spent his free time.

Bond lifted himself out of bed, quickly looking at himself in the small mirror he kept in his room. He was beginning to notice the stress of his work on his face, the lines were growing harder, his eyes were getting darker, more distant. Less human. He moved over to a drawer and pulls out a pair of pyjama bottoms. Pulling them on and stepping into his moccasins he moved over to a cupboard and pulled out a plain white t-shirt, and pulled that over himself. He made a quick check of his room, noting the location of his gun. Satisfied, he moves through to the kitchen, where he can smell eggs boiling.

He sits with the girl, eating, drinking his orange juice and occasionally looking at her. Truly a beautiful girl, the kind of girl any other man would happily settle down with. But that couldn't be his life. He belonged to the secret service, and that was that. Getting involved with any girl was not an option.

He had heard stories, about other agents who had fallen for girls. It normally ended badly, either the woman couldn't cope with the fear that her man may never return home, or she was taken by the enemy, used against the man. Neither of these was acceptable, and that's why Bond knew he had to be alone. But he did not yearn for love, and Bond was happy to live his life alone. He doubted it would ever change.


End file.
